There were only so many surprises in a flower shop. Most people wanted birthday bouquets, get well soon, Mother's day was popular, whole wedding contracts, plenty of funeral pieces, lots of 'I'm sorry' and other renditions of make-up bouquets, but every once in awhile…

Every once in awhile a total stranger would walk in and want something different.

Twenty bucks didn't get anyone very far in a flower shop, not even this handsome, dark stranger who called himself, 'Pitch,' but Jack had skills at working inside a budget, and more importantly, Jack was an artist.

Of the college art class variety.

Which meant a passive-aggressive, 'Go have sex with yourself,' bouquet was a challenge gladly accepted.

He often wanted to say, 'Fuck you,' but he often did not get paid for it.

So after a somewhat lengthy discussion of the language of flowers and how most people wanted to express love with it and not all that regularly self-love, about the necessary beauty of a bouquet full of loathing and the color theory that might be involved, and about the amount of disposable income an individual might choose to invest in wishing ill of another, they came to a simple solution.

A bruise-colored, erect penis, in flowers.

Pitch stared at the purple and blue arrangement for several quiet seconds before he reached into his wallet and produced a second twenty.

"What's that for?" Jack asked with a puzzled look.

"I need a second one," he answered, face straight as Jack wasn't, "for my dining table. Nothing says, 'good morning!' like strong coffee and balls in your face."

Jack instantly bit his lip, balled fist pressed to his lips to keep the laughter inside. It hurt so good.

The moment he had control back, Jack pressed his hands to the counter and met Pitch's gaze, "I need to date you."

One dark eyebrow rose, "Are you sure you don't mean you need to fuck me?"

Jack steadfastly shook his head, "Nope. I'm pretty sure I want to get to know you."

"Far be it from me to deny you," Pitch sighed, sliding a card across the counter.

It had a number scribbled along the back and Jack wondered just when Pitch had found a second to do that. Sneaky bastard.

Jack pocketed the card and grabbed the new bill, "I'll get you your second ballsack and then, say… Tomorrow at five? The coffee shop on the corner?"

"Sounds good," Pitch agreed with a little smirk, leaning his elbow on his side of the counter, "I'll even treat you to a cookie. That is, if you're well-behaved."

"My best behavior," Jack grinned as he grabbed a second dick-flower, "Promise."